


Little Merling

by VanillaMostly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Gen, POV Minor Character, i love wex, i love white harbor and the manderlys, i love wylla
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 16:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19232497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VanillaMostly/pseuds/VanillaMostly
Summary: Wylla befriends the mute ironborn boy.





	Little Merling

 

The ironborn boy’s name was Wex, but they didn’t know that until later. Grandfather would call him “Lad” or “Boy” but Wylla had her own names for him. Dagger was one, for he was always playing with them. At first Grandfather would confiscate them right away, but come next morning he would always have a new one twirling between his fingers. As enough time went and nobody was getting hurt, Grandfather finally gave up and let the boy do as he pleased.

Lightfoot she called him too, because he was light as air on his feet. But she might as well have also called him _Surefoot_. He could be perched on the highest wall ledges of New Castle and he’d never lose his balance. He was on the wall ledges a lot. He liked to raise a hand over his forehead and look out at the sea below like some sea captain, which maybe he fancied to be. Wylla envied him; she would love to be up there as well, but her arms were nowhere strong enough to hoist herself up.

It wasn’t long before Wex became her good friend, something that her family did not approve. Grandfather was kind enough to Wex, but Wex was still an ironborn, and bastard-born beside. Even Wynafryd told Wylla to stay away from him. When Wylla angrily called her snobbish she just rolled her eyes and said, “It’s _him_ I worry for. Leave the poor boy alone.”

“What do you think I’m going to do to him?” Wylla demanded. “He’s my friend!”

“One whose heart you'll break,” Wynafryd told her.

Wylla blushed. “It’s not like that.”

“Let us hope not,” her sister said blithely. “You’ll be a bride someday, and as much as Grandfather spoils you I doubt he’ll wed you to someone under our own roof.”

“Not until he got rid of you first,” Wylla retorted, sticking out her tongue. Wynafryd was almost nineteen and had been offered several suitors, all of whom she had turned down for one reason or another. Their lord grandfather only gave a booming laugh each time. He could be very softhearted when it came to the girls, and as even Wynafryd agreed, Wylla was the favorite.

The castle was big though, and anyhow they were all used to Wylla doing what she was not supposed to do. And you couldn’t ask for a quieter, sneakier companion than Wex. They went exploring the castle passageways, or snuck down to the harbors if they were feeling particularly daring, or other days they sat around and she taught him letters. Wex couldn’t talk, but he was good at drawing and he picked up his letters fast. They both hated Maester Theomore. If Maester Theomore tried to teach Wex, Wex would put on his dumb act, driving Maester Theomore mad. Grandfather had taught Wex too in the beginning, but Wylla liked to think that Wex learned the quickest from her teaching. He would teach her games in return, tiles and dicing and even how to twirl a dagger around (though he made her use sticks in place of daggers to start). Games that Wylla probably had no business in learning, but that only made it more fun.

She never minded that Wex couldn’t talk. He was a refreshing presence in her life, and their time together took her mind off other, sadder things. She could talk forever about merling stories and he’d only smile on, never looking bored or annoyed. He answered all her questions about the Iron Islands with nods or head shakes or drawings, the same friendly smile on his lips.

Then the Freys came.

She hated them. She hated their weasly-looking mouths and their little shapeless sacs for chins. She hated the simpering way they spoke. Most of all she hated them for what they did to Uncle Wendel and the Young Wolf. She couldn’t believe Grandfather was _hosting_ them, and that she and Wynafryd and Mother all had to sit in the same dining hall and share their food with them! She half relished the idea of the garrison suddenly bursting from behind the pillars while the Freys drank their wine. But nothing happened the entire feast, just music, irritating laughter, and pointless courtesies.

The betrothal was announced that night.

One look at Grandfather and Wylla knew - favorite granddaughter or not, this was settled.

“ _Wylla!”_

She barred herself inside her room and refused them all: Mother, Grandfather, even Wynafryd.

But somehow when Wex appeared at her elbow, she wasn’t surprised. He just looked at her sadly. For once he wasn’t smiling or smirking.

He pointed at the open window - where he came from, evidently - then pointed to her. He cocked his head. The message was clear.

_We can leave._

Wylla rubbed her eyes dry, studying the window. It was a wonderful thought, to leave with Wex; they could sneak off to the harbors again, and both of them knew their way on a boat. They could sail away, across the narrow sea if they wanted. Nobody could make her marry anyone if they couldn’t find her.

But…

She shook her head, tears leaking from her eyes again. “I can’t,” she said softly. _They have my father._

All too soon all of it came back - the war, the deaths, the perils and suffering. She had been sheltered away in a little paradise, but she was too aware what was happening outside these walls, and how much of it impacted her family, and how much of her family’s actions impacted everything else. She thought of Wynafryd, who had to marry a Frey too - and an older and especially disgusting one at that; thought of her mother, crying herself to sleep since Father had been taken hostage; of Grandfather, who had lost one son already and the other now trapped in the hands of his enemies. She thought of Father, and how he could be hurting, hungry, sick or frightened in ways she couldn’t even imagine. Wylla was ashamed.

Wex squeezed her hand.

She looked up at him. He was sitting closer to her than he had in the past. This close his eyes looked like two dark wells under moonlight. She could count his lashes; he had very long ones, longer than hers.

She didn’t know who leaned in first, but next thing she knew they were sharing a kiss. This wasn’t like the messy or awkward experimental kisses that she had shared before with maids and kitchen boys. This was Wex. This was sweet and perfect, if a touch sad.

After they drew apart she could still feel his heart beating as quickly as her own, and the coolness of his breath on her cheek. He twirled her braid around his deft fingers. Wylla, staring at her braid, slowly formed a smile.

The next morning, she donned her most beautiful gown and met the Freys with her hair dyed sea foam green.

 


End file.
